


Flower Crowns

by earlgay_milktea



Category: High School Musical: The Musical: The Series (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Angst, Crossing Timelines, Fluff, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Character Death, Nymphs & Dryads, Prince!Carlos, Romance, THIS HAS A HAPPY ENDING I SWEAR TO GOD, Witch!Seb, Witches, a mermaid will appear sometime
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:06:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,177
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28044390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/earlgay_milktea/pseuds/earlgay_milktea
Summary: Carlos, the bastard son of the Asterian king, has never met his mother. Living his whole life within the palace, hidden away from the public eye and the rest of the world, his future seems bleak—at least, until he meets Seb, a witch studying at the castle. What starts off as an easy friendship spirals into something much, much more.But when the king sends Carlos off to marry princess Nini of Hellebore, far across the sea, it’s a race against time for Seb, Carlos, and their friends to halt the wedding parade.With two kingdoms pitted against them, can Carlos and Seb unravel the past to find the truth?The wedding bells will toll, but for whom?
Relationships: Ricky Bowen/Nini Salazar-Roberts, Seb Matthew-Smith & Carlos Rodriguez, Seb Matthew-Smith/Carlos Rodriguez
Comments: 52
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**NOW:**

“I’m going to be married at the end of this month.”

Overhead, skies were blue, and clouds hung in perfect stasis. The colours of the flowers around Seb were too bright, too loud, too obnoxious in their vivacity. Tall stalks of lilies, jewel-toned carnations, bushes of dewy sapphire-blue hydrangeas with wide, blooming faces, tilting eagerly towards him, as if draining his life to feed their own.

The distant yells of the soldiers training, the chitter of creatures hiding in the undergrowth, the drone of honeybees; they faded, until all that remained was the thundering pace of Seb’s own heartbeat. 

“What?” he said, his voice fainter than the wind.

Carlos turned to face Seb. The dappled sunlight made his skin patchy with half-light, half-shadow, and his eyes were half-earth, half from the dark soil and half with something moving below the stillness if you watched long enough. There was something ever-so-slightly ethereal in the weight of his gaze, but at the same time, he was grounded, real, imperfect and human in a way that tugged at Seb’s heart with the best kind of ache.

They were seated, hands interlocked, on one of the countless stone benches in the royal gardens, underneath a decorative arch with dozens of morning glories crawling over it.

An arch—something vaguely wedding-like, Seb muses. He could laugh at the irony, but he didn’t feel much like laughing.

“Who is it?” asked Seb, already dreading the answer.

Carlos squeezed his hand. For Seb’s comfort or for his own—it didn’t really matter. They were twin ships being thrown around in a storm, and the nearest port was leagues away. 

“It’s Princess Nina of the Isles of Hellebore,” said Carlos. His voice was muted. Like he’d already resigned himself to his fate. “Her kingdom is a chain of islands. They’re rich in every precious gem you can think of. They’re also indefensible against our warships—all the King had to do was _hint_ at the possibility of a sea-strike, and they fell over themselves to appease him.”

“Hellebore,” repeated Seb, disbelieving. “That’s all the way to the north. How long does it take to travel there?”

Carlos’s mouth twitched wryly. “At least a week by sea.”

“A week?!” Seb’s half-baked hope of visiting Carlos after his marriage—if his heart could even take it—fizzled out like a hand smothering a candle-flame.

“I was too optimistic,” Carlos muttered. “I thought it would be fine if we waited until you’d graduated, or you got an apprenticeship overseas, or…” He trailed off, unsure. They’d talked about their future. It was always tentative—always marked by a hesitant need to give the other space—and it was hard being so careful, treading softly around the inevitable. How could a relationship like theirs last? How could a prince and a witch-in-training, both of whom were barely of age, carve out their own lives beyond the castle walls?

“We could—we could run away,” Seb started. “Natalie has contacts in every port, we could pack and leave by sundown and no one would know.” Even to his own ears, his words sounded ridiculous.

“The disappearance of the youngest prince would cause a stir.” Carlos shot the idea down. “Even if my father couldn’t care less about me, he _does_ like maintaining a reputation.”

“A reputation?” Seb chuckled, trying to force some humour into the situation. “When did he get one of those?”

Carlos raised an eyebrow. “He’s always had one, you know. Being the King and all.”

“He’s the _King_?”

“That joke got old the first time you said it.”

“Killjoy.” Seb flicked Carlos on the forehead. He cracked a smile, and for a brief moment, it was like any other day—meeting in the heart of the royal gardens, their chatter layering over the buzz of honeybees, drifting among flowers that stood in silent vigil, unjudging them for the way their gazes remained solely on each other, or the way their hands drew together like opposing poles of a magnet—but then Carlos’s smile faded, and a cloud passed over the sun. Something thorny and ugly uncoiled from Seb’s chest. It felt like grief. It felt like rage.

He didn’t trust his voice not to shake, but he spoke anyway. “You’re not even going to try to fix it, or—or talk to your father about it?”

Carlos brought up a hand to card through Seb’s hair, achingly gentle, as if cementing a memory. “You know he doesn’t listen to anything I say.”

“But this is about your _marriage_.” Seb caught Carlos’s wrist. “This is something that’ll last for the rest of your life. Did the King even give you a choice?”

“If I had a choice, I wouldn’t be telling you about this, would I?” said Carlos miserably.

“Gods,” whispered Seb. “That’s fucked up.”

“Tell me about it,” muttered Carlos. He slumped forward, tucking his head in the crook of Seb’s neck, and when Seb slipped an arm around him, he was shaking.

Seb stared off into sky, the brightness of it making his eyes water, but that didn’t distract him from the sickening churn of his stomach, or the stinging lump in his throat. The clouds were mountainous and white with broad golden slopes, and for all that they were fabled to be habitations of gods above the world, there was a perpetual movement among them. To every single deity he knew—them and their placid, marble faces smiling at him from the outsides of temples and churches with a hand outstretched—Seb prayed, with such desperate conviction, for them not to take away the boy sobbing in his arms.

* * *

**THEN:**

They were in the greenhouse for an hour before Natalie flopped onto the benches with an enormous sigh.

“I swear if they keep us any longer in this oven, I’m suing them for child cruelty.” She flapped her shirt for circulation, not that it did much.

The late-afternoon sun had dialled the temperature inside the greenhouse up to an unbearable warmth. Seb could see his fellow classmates flagging underneath the heat, the ones who weren’t assigned tasks fanning themselves with their wide-brimmed hats and huddling underneath the trees for shade. The ones who were working—observing plants or hefting bags of soil or recording notes—were whispering tiredly among themselves, probably complaining about the heat.

Seb didn’t mind it as much. He took gardening club and he had prior experience in working during hot weather. But back on his family farm, it was mostly dry heat, and not this swampy warmth that adhered to your skin like glue and made you _feel_ every breath you took.

So, yes. Seb didn’t mind it as much, but that didn’t mean he was completely on-board with it. And he couldn’t even cast a cooling charm! Mr Mazzara had specifically told them _not_ to use magic while working in the greenhouse, and who was Seb to go against a teacher’s judgement? He was already incredibly lucky to be learning magic in the castle at all; it was best not to push his fortune.

“Good luck trying to sue your teachers,” he said cheerily. Natalie made an aggrieved noise and slumped harder onto the bench.

The combined factors of the heat and tedious, physical labour had begun taking its toll on her. Her ponytail was wilting, and her face was bright red with perspiration.

Seb laughed, lifting another bag of soil. He was having a pretty bad time too, but seeing rich people faltering when it came to manual tasks was amusing. Not that he’d ever say that out loud. “Up you get. C’mon. We’re not done yet.”

“I don’t get it,” she complained. “You do this stuff year-round. Every Wednesday afternoon. Of your own free will.”

“Gardening club is fun. You’re just boring.”

_“Hey.”_

He gave her a thumbs-up. “Extracurriculars are important for a well-rounded education.”

Natalie groaned. _“Shut up.”_

Seb just laughed.

Eventually, Mr Mazzara came over to glare Natalie back to work. She did, with no small amount of stalling and grumbling.

“What’s the point of this?” she muttered. “We’re not learning anything; they’re just using us for free labour.”

“I think we’re learning about doing things without magic.”

Natalie sighed gustily. “I didn’t spend four years in Saint Meridian’s to carry _dirt_ around with my bare hands.”

“Rich people,” Seb muttered underneath his breath.

“What was that?”

“Nothing!” he called, flashing her a smile. She raised an eyebrow.

Seb made his gradual way across the area, the bag of soil half-obscuring his vision. They were working in the central room of the greenhouse; the biggest and brightest one, with a spire-topped dome roof that soared above their heads. It held rows and rows of greenery, ranging from common to rare to magical. Those magical plants were nothing too devastating; they kept the dangerous ones in other sections. There were seven other greenhouses that spanned out from the centre, each with a domed roof and glass walls, but each unique in the biome that it replicated, the plants that it housed. Seb had visited all of them. There was hot savannah and humid jungle, and arctic snow and murky swamp and others – he kept on the neat stone paths of course, so he could observe the magically fenced-off pockets of nature and not ruin his shoes.

Seb was so busy thinking about the rest of the greenhouse that he almost bumped into Rico.

“Hey!” the other boy snapped, peering out from behind his own bag of soil. “Grow a pair of eyes, will you—oh, hi Seb.”

“Hi, Rico,” Seb greeted. “Are you feeling alright?”

“Mentally or physically?” said Rico, placing the bag on his hip so his face was unobstructed. A corner of his mouth was twisted. “Because I’m feeling pretty terrible all-round.”

“It’ll be over soon,” promised Seb. “And besides, _the pain is your lesson_ ,” he dropped his voice, imitating Mr Mazzara’s gruff tones.

“Yeah, I know,” replied Rico, sighing. “Mr Mazzara wants us to humble ourselves. He wants us to know that witches aren’t above anyone else just because we can use magic—but can’t he have done it some other way?”

One part of Seb was inclined to agree. It was the part that’d sat through countless lectures about not holding yourself in higher esteem than others, in not over-estimating your abilities, in staying humble the more powerful you got. It was the part that’d been raised in the halls of Saint’s Meridian’s Academy for Witches, it was the part that’d brushed shoulders with children of every blue-blood of the kingdom, it was the part that’d blossomed underneath the tuition of the palace teachers, of the Court Mages, of the guest-speakers that came in to discuss career options: Arch Mage, Alchemist, Grimoire-Keeper—each job more prestigious than the last.

Another part of Seb, a part that still longed for the simplicity of farm life, wanted to disagree with Rico. It was one thing to make students sit through those lectures, but it was another to physically _force_ them to working without magic. Words could only do so much. Actions were what counted.

Rico made a questioning noise. Seb had been silent for too long.

“Well,” Seb began. “Mr Mazzara’s a teacher, after all. He probably knows things we don’t.”

Rico shrugged. “Maybe you’re right. I really don’t know. Anyway, I gotta put this,” he slapped the bag of soil, “over there. See ya.” With that, Rico gave Seb an affectionate bump on the shoulder, then hurried away.

The air was so thick Seb felt like he could swim through it. The aqueducts burbled happily through their channels, almost inaudible underneath the hubbub of the students. The tree leaves shifted overheard, casting dappled shadows onto the ground as Seb dodged a classmate, side-stepped a fallen shovel, and placed his load on the growing pile with an _oomph._

He wiped at his forehead, at the gathering sweat. For a moment, he allowed himself to just breathe.

Summer had descended upon the kingdom like a well-worn blanket. Though the weather was a nuisance, Seb found it comforting in its familiarity, every muggy inhale likened to another heat-drenched memory from the past. It came to him in bits and pieces, his early days in Saint Meridian’s, his first few months studying magic away from home, those languid weekends spent exploring the castle town and revelling in his newfound independence, trying to swallow the homesickness that picked at his seams. Just like back then, the late afternoon sun bore down, just so that the air above the ground rippled with heat, just so that the greenhouse windows looked more gold than glass. Beyond them, the sky was relentlessly blue, contrasting the pristine green of the castle grounds.

“Ew, mandrake saplings,” said Natalie, her voice snapping him out of his reverie. He hadn’t even noticed her approach. She was inspecting a row of potted plants. They looked innocuous, if you ignored the squirming branches. “Aren’t these dangerous?”

“They are if you don’t pull them out,” Seb said.

Natalie made a face and stepped away. A branch made a futile attempt to curl around her ankle. She hissed a spellword. It flinched violently.

“You’re not allowed to use magic on the plants,” Seb informed her.

Natalie’s eye-roll was audible. “It’s not like they’re gonna die.”

“Some of them have very delicate constitutions, you know—”

“Fine, I won’t do it again. Happy?”

Seb beamed at her. “Very.”

The rest of the lesson passed in the same manner, the hour wheeling past with idle chatter. As the sun dipped further in the sky, staining the horizon with gauzy streaks of pink and orange, Seb’s class was dismissed. They slipped on their powder-blue half-cloaks, donned their witch hats, and set off toward their dormitories.

The heat had died down, to Natalie’s immense relief. She was too tired to power-walk as she usually did, so she opted for a slower stroll. With one hand, she fanned herself with her hat. With the other, she clung to Seb’s sleeve.

“You’re walking too fast,” she complained.

“If you’re tired and want me to slow down, you can just say so.”

“I’m not tired,” she flat-out lied.

Seb snorted. Natalie gave him a _look._

As he slowed his pace, he found his gaze wandering, as it always did, to the royal gardens. It was a shame that students weren’t allowed to enter. If he just looked past the stone towers marking the West Wing, where their dormitories were, he could see its beginnings. Hedges trimmed with military precision bordered the garden. A large, wrought-iron gate leading into a place dense with greenery; if Seb squinted, he could make out the mellow hue of white roses, the buttery glow of daffodils, the dying sunlight trailing its fingers over the shoulders of a boy as he opened the gate and slipped inside—

Huh?

Seb stopped walking abruptly. Natalie said something, but it failed to reach his ears. His vision tunnelled onto the boy’s back—his white shirt a beacon, getting smaller as he made his way deeper into the garden—and before Seb knew it, his feet were moving.

“Where are you going?” Natalie asked.

“To the gardens,” he said, barely registering his own voice. “Don’t wait for me. I’ll be back before curfew.”

“Wait, which gardens? The _royal_ ones? Hold on—”

Seb didn’t hear the rest of her response. He broke into a jog, whispering a _don’t-notice-me_ charm underneath his breath because he couldn’t get caught, not right now, not when there was such an insistent tugging his heart, not when every inch of his being was pushing him toward that garden, toward that boy. He couldn’t explain why. It was something that started in his chest and branched outward like vines toward sun. It was a spark that promised a blaze. It was the unshakeable, unwavering knowledge that if he left this boy alone, he’d live to regret it. 

Seb reached the gates.

They swung open on silent hinges.

The world beyond was lush and shadowy. The flowerbeds were a riot of colour, and for all that they appeared to grow wild and unrestrained, upon closer inspection, they were weed-free. They seemed to be planted with no rhyme nor reason; irregular-sized patches of flowers fighting for room with enormous thickets, a lone sunflower here and there, and cleaving a path through it all: a pebbled trail.

It was cramped. It was chaotic.

It was _lovely._

The noises of the outside world seemed to fade away, until all that remained was the drone of insects, the skitter of creatures in the undergrowth, and the echo of Seb’s own heartbeat in his ears. He’d never known it to be so silent before. The castle was always full of life; the faint footsteps of servants attending to their duties, the loud chatter of students between classes and at mealtimes, and even at night, the quiet breaths of the boys who Seb shared a room with. Now, he heard neither voices nor footsteps, and it occurred to him that he was trespassing on a private space of the royal family.

He should leave. He should really leave.

The air was still tacky with lingering humidity, despite the setting sun. When he breathed in, the scent of nature swept over him like a blanket, settling him, reassuring him. His magic stirred. Prickled at the skin of his palms, whispering to be released—to be used.

Seb started walking down the path.

Leaves crunched where his feet fell. The bushes rustled with invisible movement when he passed. The breeze stirred the trees overhead, and Seb was confused when he didn’t hear the leaves rattling, until he looked up and realised that they were flowering trees. On impulse, he held out his palm. A single pink petal drifted down. It carved a gentle path through the air, eventually coming to rest in Seb’s hand. He didn’t know if he’d ever felt this much at peace.

The boy was in a small clearing, perched on the edge of a swingset. A starburst of colours was painted around him like the frenzied strokes of an angry artist, or perhaps like the splash of spilled dye in water. His white shirt stood out amongst the colour; stark, a blank canvas.

Overhead, the sun had dipped below the horizon, and the sky was awash in a brilliant haze of pink. That same dusky shade had made its home in the dips and hollows of the boy’s hands where he clutched at the chains of the swing, where he sat with one foot tucked underneath his chin and the other dangling toward the ground. He looked to be around Seb’s age, or perhaps a bit older—he had a keen, knowing air that spoke of maturity. His hair was black and swept to a side, and when he looked up at Seb, his eyes glittered like smoky quartz, all dark and intense and—

Watery?

“You’re crying,” Seb blurted, stupidly.

Something between irritation and confusion flashed across the boy’s face. Immediately, his whole posture shifted, becoming guarded; his shoulders tensing, his eyebrows drawing into a frown.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said, wiping furiously at his eyes. His voice was raw, and Seb wondered why he hadn’t heard him crying. 

“Yeah, I know,” said Seb, feeling very wrong-footed. “Are _you_ allowed to be here?”

The boy scowled at him. “Don’t you know who I am?”

Seb, puzzled, replied with, “Am I supposed to?”

A mask of shock descended on the boy’s face, and Seb felt a little guilty, except he couldn’t think of anyone else his age who lived in the castle other than his classmates. Perhaps this boy was a servant? Or one of the noble children who received their education along with the princes? But looking at the boy, at his plain white shirt and well-fitting shorts and sensible brown shoes—at odds with the gaudy fashion of a typical aristocrat, Seb’s assumptions veered closer to servant-boy.

So, it made even _less_ sense that the boy expected Seb to recognise him.

“I’m terrible at remembering faces,” Seb offered.

The boy didn’t seem convinced. “Really.”

“Yeah. Really.”

A long, awkward moment passed between them. It was punctuated by the faint birdcall in the trees, and the occasional sniffle that the boy tried to cover with his hand.

“Sorry,” Seb burst out, feeling incredibly out-of-place. “I’m really sorry for intruding on your, uh, crying. I’ll leave now.”

“Hold on,” the boy interrupted. He was staring intensely at Seb, his dark eyes narrowed in their scrutiny. “Why are you here? Did you follow me?”

Seb wanted to throw himself into a bush. “I swear I’m not stalking you I just saw you come in here and I got really curious I’m sorry.”

“It’s… fine.” The boy shrugged tightly. He looked just as off-balance as Seb felt, which was reassuring. His face was still damp. Seb knew he should leave, but turning his back on a crying boy just didn’t sit right with him. The thought spurred him to walk forward, to conjure up a tissue with a snap of his fingers and offer it to the boy, who looked at it with a mixture of suspicion and bewilderment.

“You’re a witch?” he said.

Seb gestured at his cloak and his hat. “I’d say that’s pretty obvious.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “I’m a bit _preoccupied_ , okay?”

Seb sat down next to him. The swing was more of a hanging chair, and it allowed him to put a reasonable distance between them. His hand, offering the tissue, was still stuck out. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

“What?”

“Once it’s off your chest, you might feel better,” Seb said. He placed the tissue down between them. The metal of the seat was warm beneath his fingers. “I won’t tell anyone about this, I promise.”

The boy scoffed. “Why should I trust you?”

“It’s not like I’m going to put up your trauma for sale.”

“There’s a market for everything,” he said, but took the tissue and blew his nose with it. When Seb offered him another, he didn’t hesitate before taking it. When he drew close, Seb noticed that there was a fresh scent of jasmine and grass and leaves about the boy, almost as if he were made of them. Seb liked it.

“So, what’s on your mind?” he asked. He leaned back until he could see the trees above them, and peeking through, the twilit hue of the sky. He still had an hour or so before curfew.

“You’re gonna think it’s stupid,” the boy said.

“If it made you cry, it’s probably not.”

He made a noncommittal hum. When Seb looked over, his face was pensive.

“Does it ever seem like—” he stopped. “Do you ever feel like when something good is about to happen, it’s suddenly taken away?”

Seb paused. “Did something like that happen to you?”

A cool breeze blew over the clearing, and the boy exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders. The shadows underneath his eyes appeared dusky-blue in the fading light.

“I was gonna visit the castle town this weekend,” he continued. “My – my dad and my brother have to run an errand. They said I could come with them, but today, they told me I can’t.” Seb couldn’t see him, but he felt him slump against the chair, causing them to swing gently. “They do this every time. And every time, something always happens at the last minute. Something always goes wrong: it’s not necessary anymore, or they can conduct their business just _fine_ from the castle, or I’m not well-behaved enough, or—” He broke off with a frustrated noise. “I’m not a _child_ anymore. Why can’t they understand that?” He blew his nose again, probably to hide the fresh tears gathering in his eyes.

Seb’s chest ached with sympathy, but he didn’t know what to say. This situation was multiple levels of awful. His mind was immediately set to motion, mapping out ways to make the boy feel better, planning a very strongly-worded letter to his parents, whoever they were, because the word of a witch-in-training might hold some swing? Hopefully?

Seb replayed the boy’s words. “Wait a second,” he said. “You’ve never been to town?”

“I’ve never left the castle,” the boy replied sourly.

Seb’s head was spinning, trying to piece together fragments of an image that kept eluding his grasp. The boy wasn’t a servant, since they didn’t live in their workplace. But he couldn’t be a noble either because they had their own estates, and he obviously wasn’t a student, which meant—which only left—

“Can I say something really weird?” said Seb, his voice sounding distant to his own ears.

The boy raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been doing that this whole time, but okay.”

Seb elbowed him in the ribs. He snickered, and it brightened his face like a flower in spring—throwing Seb off-guard for a single, wild moment.

“You’re the prince, aren’t you?” he blurted.

An immediate change came over the boy—no, Carlos. Carlos Aster-Rodriguez, the youngest prince of the kingdom of Aster. Seb had never seen his portrait, nor met him in person, only hearing about him in snatches and whispers.

_“He’s so lucky, you know? Most children of royal mistresses are raised as servants or kicked out.”_

_“Thank Gods he has an older brother. A legitimate heir. Can you imagine if_ he _was the crown prince?”_

_“I heard his mother was a common street whore.”_

“I _heard he was left on the castle doorsteps when he was an infant.”_

And lastly, the most common phrase of all, hissed with vitriol and pity in equal measure:

_“Bastard prince.”_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My travel itinerary?” Carlos said, baffled. “Am I going somewhere?”
> 
> Leo smiled pityingly at Carlos. “You’re spending two weeks in Hellebore, then coming back for the wedding.”
> 
> Carlos stood abruptly, banging his knee on the desk as he did so. It hurt like a motherfucker, but he bore it like a man, because physical hurt couldn’t possibly compare to the hurt in his heart, goddammit. “What—how—?”
> 
> “I’m sorry,” said Leo, who, to his credit, looked quite sorry. “You’re leaving this evening. Father has already made the arrangements.”

**NOW:**

A knock came on Carlos’s bedroom door.

Carlos startled so hard his pen jerked, leaving an ugly streak of ink across the parchment. He bit back a curse.

“Come in.”

The door opened. Carlos’s half-brother, Leo, entered.

The both took after the king, having the same dark hair and sun-warmed skin and vaguely beaky nose. But that was where the similarities ended. Though Carlos was nearly twenty and bony to the point of adolescent leanness (due to a hatred of just about all forms of physical activity, except dancing), Leo was an athletic man, and his physique showed it.

He was also insufferable about letting _everyone_ know.

Leo’s shirts were tailored to accentuate his arms. He wore almost-too-tight pants. He had an annoying habit of buttoning his shirt halfway and acting unaware when people pointed it out to him.

He’d told Carlos he was _‘appealing to the masses.’_ Carlos knew Leo was just vain.

Ordinarily, this kind of behaviour would be culled just as quickly as it rose. Carlos had heard mutterings in the court, predominantly amongst the men, who wondered darkly if the King would ever put a stop to Leo’s less-than-traditional tendencies. It wasn’t right for a crown prince to act so uncouthly, they would say. Princes should be well-dressed and well-kept, just like…

Then they’d glance awkwardly in Carlos’s direction, and falter.

The truth of the matter was this: The King would never reprimand Leo for anything. Not when he had more tempting fodder to stomp on (i.e. Carlos). As a result, Leo was allowed to push past the bounds of what he was _expected_ to be, and lived like what he _wanted_ to be: brazen, arrogant, and baring his chest to the whole castle.

In exchange, Leo never stepped in when their father berated Carlos unjustly, never spoke up when the Queen openly ignored Carlos’s presence, and never breathed a word to Carlos when their parents were around.

Leo’s reasons were understandable. Though they were understandable, and Carlos would probably do the same in Leo’s shoes (in exchange for the barest brush of freedom, the slightest relief from the back-breaking weight of the crown, what was a small amount of complicit silence?), he still resented Leo. Those ugly feelings were always there, always within reach, always simmering close underneath the surface. Though Leo tried to bridge the distance between them—like gifting Carlos a trinket from trips to the castle town, or firing gossiping maids, or calling him _‘brother’_ with just the slightest wince—his attempts always felt half-hearted and obligatory. Carlos could appreciate Leo’s efforts, but he always kept an arms-length between them. And Leo never tried any harder to get closer.

So, they had a cordial relationship. They weren’t as friendly as brothers ought to be, but as the King liked reminding Carlos: he wasn’t _really_ Leo’s brother. He was just a tool. He would be married to someone lowly enough to want him, stained as his background may be, and his noble sacrifice would fill the kingdom’s coffers.

The King had been saying those words for a long time. Carlos thought those were just that: words. Empty promises.

Politicians made plenty of those.

Carlos didn’t expect the King to actually follow through. 

“Good afternoon, future prince consort of Hellebore,” said Leo, who did a little mock-bow, his three necklaces jangling from the motion ( _wow, what a jokester,_ thought Carlos with near-murderous rage), and closed the door after him. “Father’s got a message for you.”

Carlos cleared away his stained parchment-paper. “Couldn’t he have come himself?”

“He’s meeting with the marriage-planner. Anyway—”

Carlos frowned. “Shouldn’t that be _my_ job? Well, me and my,” his throat closed around the word, “fiancée.”

Leo shrugged. His shirt gaped with the movement. It was half-unbuttoned again, much to Carlos’s annoyance. “Father makes his own decisions.”

“And mine too, apparently,” snapped Carlos.

Leo ran a hand through his hair, looking lost. He cut a strange figure against Carlos’s neat bedroom—him and his artful rumpledness, in his unbuttoned shirt, tailored pants, and the three delicate cold chains glinting at the _large expanse_ of skin of his chest (either an assassin would strangle him with those necklaces or Carlos would, mark his fucking words). Leo had never stood in Carlos’s bedroom for this long. It felt oddly vulnerable, knowing that Leo was standing in the same place that Carlos cried himself to sleep some nights, or fussed over paperwork most nights, or leapt out the window to sneak into the castle town with Seb on other nights. There were a thousand little memories in this space, a thousand pieces of Carlos scattered along a thousand points in time. It was like someone reading his diary, if he had one, and seeing all the versions of himself throughout the years, all leading up to who he was today.

Carlos had to get Leo out as soon as possible.

“So,” Carlos said. “What’s the message?”

Leo flicked out an envelope from nowhere. He placed it down on Carlos’s desk. “The plan for the rest of the month. Your travel itinerary. Everything you need to know about Hellebore: a brief history, trivia, wildlife, a comprehensive guide on how many layers of coats you need to wear, et cetera, et cetera.”

“My travel itinerary?” Carlos said, baffled. “Am I going somewhere?”

Leo smiled pityingly at Carlos. “You’re spending two weeks in Hellebore, then coming back for the wedding.”

Carlos stood abruptly, banging his knee on the desk as he did so. It hurt like a motherfucker, but he bore it like a man, because physical hurt couldn’t possibly compare to the hurt in his heart, goddammit. “What—how—?”

“I’m sorry,” said Leo, who, to his credit, looked quite sorry. “You’re leaving this evening. Father has already made the arrangements.”

Carlos did the calculations in his head: the end of the month was four weeks away. With two weeks spent travelling by sea and another two weeks in Hellebore, it left Carlos with only a day in Aster, if at all, and that was also the day of his wedding.

Carlos spared a moment to wonder what Seb would think of this news. They’d never spent more than three weeks apart—when Seb returned to his family’s farm for Winterstar—and even then, the separation had been lessened by the promise of return. A return that was _not_ Carlos’s wedding. Could Seb even attend? Do witches-in-training attend royal weddings? If their parents were nobles, like Natalie, surely they’d get an invite, but Seb was studying at the castle by the grace of the Court Mages who vouched for him. He had no background and no title. He wouldn’t be able to attend.

Carlos wondered which option was worse: Seb being present for the ceremony, close enough that Carlos could make eye contact with him through the crowd, or Seb only hearing about it through second-hand accounts.

Both options were terrible. 

The sheer ridiculousness of it all dawned on Carlos. _He_ was the one getting married, but he was still worrying over Seb.

Love did strange things to people.

“We have to do something about this,” Seb had said that morning, after Carlos had broken the news.

“We _can’t_ ,” said Carlos, though every fibre of his being wanted to scream: Yes, let’s do something! Let’s break some kneecaps! Preferably the King’s!

“You haven’t even tried anything yet,” said Seb. “I know you said the disappearance of the youngest prince would cause an uproar, but no one even knows what you look like. You’ve made no official public appearances. You have no portraits or statues—no offence.”

“None taken.”

“So, what I’m saying is,” Seb gathered Carlos’s hands in his. “You could just. Disappear. Lay low for long enough, and then live like a normal person.” He paused. “You could hide out at my place?” His face was so disgustingly hopeful that a little part of Carlos was tempted to agree, even though common sense said _no._

“Seb, honey, light of my life,” said Carlos, gently extracting his hands, “that’s not going to work.”

He felt utterly powerless in this situation, like a glass vase, only a breath away from cracking, but he couldn’t begin to imagine how helpless Seb felt.

Seb sighed gustily. “Yeah. I know. I just… it _can’t_ end like this.” He looked up. Carlos could see a storm gathering behind his eyes, all thunder and lightning intermingled with righteous fury, and Carlos appreciated it, he really did, but he was also a realistic person. Unless a miracle happened, there was no way that he could get out of this marriage. And he said so. 

“I can’t lose you like this,” Seb replied, his voice shaking like he was breaking apart, and what else could Carlos do but hold him and try to keep him together?

“I’m still here,” he’d said, muffled into Seb’s shoulder. Words felt shamefully inadequate, but they were all Carlos had. “You haven’t lost me yet.”

Carlos realised, with a start, that he’d been gazing off into space for too long. Leo wasn’t saying anything, and was beginning to look confused, but in an understanding sort of way, like he’d stay silent for as long as it took Carlos to gain his bearings again.

Carlos had had enough of silence.

“So that’s it, then,” he said, his voice steadier than he felt. “I’ll spend the rest of the month overseas, or at sea. Then I’ll get married. Then I’ll move to Hellebore and you’ll never see me again.”

_And Seb will never see me again._

Leo’s mouth turned down. Whether it was out of sympathy or the desire to end this conversation, Carlos couldn’t tell.

“I know it’s too late to say this, but,” Leo paused. “I don’t think our father has made the right decision in marrying you to Princess Nina.”

“He’s got garrisons in the north and campaigns in the south,” said Carlos sourly, thinking of the King’s pointless attempts to expand further inland. “His armies are stretched thin. He needs all the gold he can get.”

Leo smiled.

It wasn’t a smile that Carlos was used to seeing on him. It wasn’t the regal, half-upturned mouth that he gave the court. It wasn’t the rakish grin that he wore around pretty noble ladies, accompanied by his half-undone shirt and those stupid tailored pants, no—this smile was smaller. Sharper.

If you ran your thumb across it, you’d surely bleed.

“It’s awfully inconvenient, if you ask me,” said Leo. His tone was deliberately light, as if he was discussing the weather instead of casting borderline-treasonous judgements upon the King. “There are other ways to fund your army. Or better yet: stop expanding altogether. Our kingdom is already flourishing. There’s no reason to infringe on our neighbours except to fuel your own ego. But,” he sighed dramatically, “what is there to be done? I’m just the crown prince, and father will only hand over his throne when he’s dead or dying.”

Carlos eyed his brother carefully. “You think you’d do a better job than him as King?”

Leo threw his head back and laughed. Carlos took a step back, a prickle of apprehension crawling down his spine. “What—what’s so funny?”

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Leo waved a hand. “It’s just—our father is so desperate to get rid of you, it’s ridiculous.”

Carlos scoffed on reflex, startled and a little hurt. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

Then, before Carlos could respond, Leo stepped forward and tugged Carlos into a hug.

Carlos froze.

“I’m going to miss you,” said Leo into the air above Carlos’s shoulder. “You probably won’t believe me, and I’d understand—but, for what it’s worth, I’ll miss you.”

Slowly, Carlos hugged his brother back.

It was awkward. It was stiff. It was years out-of-practice. Nonetheless, something inside of Carlos settled, like a dog curling in front of a home’s hearth.

Even if his father hated him, and his step-mother couldn’t stand the sight of him, and his half-brother remained complicitly silent, Carlos still craved the _wholeness_ that came from having family. The warmth of their unconditional love. The knowledge that you were as irreplaceable to them as they were to you. The surety of having a place to return to. When the world grew too heavy for your weary shoulders, you had people to share its weight with.

Carlos only knew it in flashes. He knew it in the brief pride in the King’s eyes when his tutors spoke favourably of him, in the softening of the Queen’s mouth when she chided Carlos for his crooked tie, in the small things that Leo did to show that he cared, no matter how half-assed those things were.

Carlos’s resentment for his family ran deep. But he was only human, and humans loved one another as surely as they lived, and so, the parts of himself that didn’t hate his family loved them instead.

He was ashamed to discover that his eyes had teared up. Again. “Don’t let the King hear you say that.”

Leo pulled back, blinking rapidly. He didn’t cry. “Of course, of course.” He cleared his throat, took a step away, and re-adjusted his sleeves. “Let’s never speak of that again.”

Carlos hurriedly agreed. “Good idea.”

“Yep, good ideas, I’m full of them,” said Leo. He tucked his hands into his pockets. He cleared his throat again, the motion causing his necklaces to catch the light. Carlos’s eyes snagged on them, and he made an involuntary motion to fiddle with the delicate silver chain that hung around his own neck, which he kept as a good luck charm of sorts, because dangling at the end was—

Carlos’s hand met fabric. His necklace was hidden beneath his shirt, he remembered in a rush. He forced his hand back down, hoping that Leo wouldn’t notice, but it wouldn’t matter if he got found out, would it? There was no point now.

To Carlos’s relief, Leo still looked vaguely off-kilter. He hadn’t noticed anything. It occurred to Carlos that this was the most uncomposed that he’d ever seen Leo. He didn’t know if this was the natural consequence of Leo initiating an awkward heart-to-heart, or if it was him deliberately showing Carlos a vulnerable, unmasked side of himself; a lion baring its belly.

Leo finally gestured to the envelope on Carlos’s desk. His face looked like it didn’t know what expression to settle on. “Get reading. You’re leaving—”

“This evening. So you’ve said.”

A corner of Leo’s mouth twitched up. A glimmer of hesitant pride. That sense of _whole_ surging through Carlos’s chest, though it was too little, too late.

“Safe travels,” said Leo.

And then he was gone, leaving Carlos alone—with his thoughts, with the envelope—for the foreseeable future.

* * *

**THEN:**

The royal gardens were designed to emulate nature. Whereas the castle grounds were perfectly green and uniform, with flowerbeds of purple asters surrounding the royal wings, the royal gardens themselves seemed like they’d grown without any guidance from human hands. Carlos knew this wasn’t true, of course. There were gardeners who worked on a monthly basis to give the garden its wild, unrestrained look. Carlos had bumped into them on a handful of occasions. They were all very cordial to him (as if they had any other choice), but Carlos always preferred it when he was there alone. He found it easier to wallow in his self-pity that way.

But there was something else about it, too. Something about being the sole occupant of this little piece of paradise; it settled Carlos. When he was in the garden, his mind quieted, and his thoughts calmed, like he’d been swept along by an autumn gale all his life but he was finally released. It was a place to find solace. When the hustle and bustle of the palace became too much for him, when the King became too tiresome to bear, when the itchy, filmy feeling of too many people grated on his edges and ground them to dust, he had somewhere to escape to.

Shielded from prying eyes by the border of hedges and the wrought-iron gate, Carlos had sought refuge in its depths, comforted by the knowledge that no one, absolutely no one, would be able to find him there. 

At least, that was before the witch came barrelling in. 

“Yes,” said Carlos, over the birdsong in the trees, over the rush of blood in his ears, over the faint stirring of the evening around him. “Yes, I’m the prince.”

The witch had an indiscernible expression. His gaze was heavy, filled with some unnameable emotion; something dark, searching, the weight of it pressing down like a mantle. What did he see, when he looked at Carlos? A valiant figure atop a white steed? A figure from a storybook? Or someone enveloped in shadow, hidden away in the depths of the castle, surrounded with mysteries and intrigue?

Was he disappointed by what he saw?

Carlos had experienced it all; disparaging remarks from the King, venomous side-eyes from the Queen, heavy silences from Leo, who stood by, complicit in their family’s abuse, as well as the general air of distaste that the nobles exuded. Compared to that, the opinion of a single witch—not even a proper one at that, just a student—should be nothing. A drop of water in a torrent.

Despite that, Carlos found himself irrationally saddened by the prospect of this witch finding him distasteful.

He couldn’t explain why. Maybe it was the way the witch had treated him so affably. Maybe it was the way he’d stumbled into this clearing, bumbling and coltish, the very image of a teenage boy faced with what he feared most: emotional honesty. Maybe it was the way he’d stayed, despite that. Or maybe it was the way his powder-blue cloak looked; the way it almost glowed in the half-light, looking fragile, like something out of an ivory tower.

Then there was the way he held himself. Most people who studied in the palace were children of nobles, but Carlos could tell that this witch wasn’t.

“Well?” pressed Carlos. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

 _“Oh,”_ breathed the witch, and immediately descended into a flurry of motion. He tore off his hat, all but threw himself off the swing-seat, and went down on one knee in front of Carlos.

“Your Highness, if I have offended you in any way, I deeply apologise,” he said, all bluster and panic, to which Carlos responded with: “What are you _doing?”_

The witch frowned in thought. “Bowing? Showing—uh, what’s the word…” He slapped his fist on his palm, his face lighting up. “Showing obeisance! Yeah, that! Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” He smiled up at Carlos, still on one knee.

 _He’s mocking me,_ was the immediate conclusion that Carlos drew. But, strangely, that thought didn’t slot into Carlos’s mind smoothy.

“Get up, you don’t need to do that,” snapped Carlos. When the witch still didn’t make a move, Carlos stepped forward and bodily tugged him up. This was an awkward feat. One of the witch’s hands was folded on his chest and the other was gripping his hat, so Carlos settled for pulling at his arms and hoped he got the idea.

He got the idea.

When they stood on even ground, it was clear that the witch was a little taller. Carlos felt irritated for no reason.

The witch tentatively put his hat back on.

In the half-light, his eyes were impossibly blue. From this close, Carlos noticed other things too, like the mole on the witch’s right cheek, the way his eyelashes were darker than his hair, and the pink of his lips, slightly parted. 

“You’ve literally seen me crying,” Carlos said, ignoring the strange flip in his stomach. “I think we can skip the formalities.”

The witch huffed out a laugh. “I guess I’ll just do this the normal way.” He held out his hand, like he and Carlos were just two normal people who met under normal circumstances. It was terribly improper. But here, among the gardens, with leaves and petals crunching underfoot, underneath a rapidly-darkening sky, titles held little weight. “I’m Sebastian, but everyone calls me Seb. It’s a pleasure to meet you, your highness.”

Carlos shook Seb’s hand on autopilot. It was warm and dry and the contact was maddeningly addicting. Curse Carlos’s touch-starvedness.

“The pleasure is all mine,” he said, but in a rare moment of impulsivity, corrected himself: “Actually, I don’t mean that. Meeting you has been…”

Seb’s smile grew slightly pained. “Terrible? Tragic? Trauma-worthy?”

“An experience,” Carlos finished. He let go of Seb’s hand a beat earlier than he would’ve liked. Dammit.

“Haha, well.” Seb scratched the back of his head, a transparent action to break eye contact with Carlos. “I’m still really sorry about walking in here, your highness.”

“I know,” replied Carlos, suddenly feeling very tired. Now that Seb knew Carlos was the prince, his whole demeanour had changed; turning timider, holding his words carefully to his chest.

It was disappointing. Carlos would’ve liked to keep chatting and keep his identity under wraps for a little longer. Everyone around him—the noble’s children he took classes with, the branch family of the main royal bloodline, the lords and ladies at court—used politeness to keep him at as great a distance as possible. He was a crow among doves, a drop of ink in clean water. He was the living, breathing proof of the King’s disloyalty, and his father resented him for it.

“We should get going,” he said. There was no point lingering if this conversation was over.

Seb looked up at the sky. He winced. “You’re right. I think I’m already late for curfew.”

“Will you get in trouble?”

Seb shot Carlos a confused glance, but answered anyway: “I might get detention. Or forced to clean the classroom without magic. It’s not a big deal, but it just doesn’t look good, you know?”

“Don’t worry about it,” said Carlos, turning away. He began to walk. “I’ll put in a word for you.”

Seb scrambled after him. “Oh! That’s—really nice, you don’t have to,” he tacked on hurriedly, “your highness.”

He started walking beside Carlos, not behind, a fact that would’ve thrown the folks at court into a frothing rage, but Carlos found he didn’t mind.

“What’s the point of being a prince if I can’t throw my title around?” said Carlos, aiming for a light tone, but only succeeding in sounding bitter. He hoped Seb didn’t notice.

Carlos tried to glance discreetly to the left, trying to gauge Seb’s reaction.

Seb was staring directly at him. There was a thoughtful furrow to his brow.

Dammit. Seb _did_ notice.

“You’re a prince,” said Seb, slowly, like he was speaking to himself, “yet the King doesn’t even let you go outside?” He paused, visibly searching for his next words. After a beat, he said, eloquently: “That _sucks._ ”

“I think we’ve established that,” Carlos said wryly, indicating the balled-up tissue in his pocket.

Seb flushed. “Well, I think it’s ridiculous,” he said hurriedly, a little embarrassed, but making an earnest attempt to redeem himself. “You deserve to go to the castle town if you want to. You’re royalty. You’re—you’re _human._ You have a right to these things.”

Carlos snorted. “Why don’t you tell that to the King?”

Seb looked like he was considering it.

“I’m joking,” Carlos said.

“Yeah, I knew that,” said Seb cheerfully, but Carlos got the feeling that he didn’t.

* * *

When they arrived at the dormitories, a teacher was standing at the door, arms crossed, his moustache twitching with thunderous displeasure. 

The witches-in-training lived in an elegant building that was attached to the castle’s west wing. It was about three storeys tall, with tall windows and grey brickwork that looked impeccably clean, probably due to magic. Carlos had no doubt that the interior was just as lovely. A curtain twitched, catching his eye. He looked up just in time to make eye contact with a girl peering through the glass. The girl’s jaw dropped, and she quickly turned behind her, her mouth moving frantically.

Now, no less than five faces were pressed up against the glass, their curious eyes fixed on Carlos.

Great. Just great.

Lamps hung on either side of the door. Their light cleaved through the darkness as effectively as a knife slicing through butter. When their glow didn’t flicker, Carlos realised that they weren’t flames—they were witch-lights.

As Carlos and Seb drew closer, Seb raised his hand in a half-hearted wave. “Hi, Mr Mazzara.”

“Curfew was thirty minutes ago,” Mr Mazzara said, his eyes fixed on Seb. His gaze flicked over to Carlos, but he didn’t seem to have recognised him yet. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”

Seb smiled sheepishly. “Well, uh… I don’t.” Before Mr Mazzara could retort with anything, Seb jerked a thumb in Carlos’s direction. “But _he_ does.”

Carlos took a deep breath. He envisioned himself with a crown, with a sceptre, with all the ornaments that a royal would have. He wasn’t naturally regal, but the mask of it settled on him easily.

When he looked back up, into Mr Mazzara’s eyes, at the expression of dawning realisation on his face, Carlos was no longer _just_ Carlos. He was a prince. 

“Your royal highness,” said Mr Mazzara, his voice tight with shock. He hastily performed the proper bow, pressing his right hand to his heart, bending deeply at the waist. Carlos heard Seb muttering: “So _that’s_ how it’s done.”

“Rise,” commanded Carlos, carefully keeping his tone bland, like this was routine to him. In truth, people usually only performed the correct greeting for Leo, rose, and then acknowledged Carlos with a nod. He was secondary to the crown prince. He was just an accessory; an unneeded one, at that.

Mr Mazzara straightened from his bow. “What brings his royal highness here?”

“Seb missed curfew because of me,” said Carlos, cutting to the point. “We were talking for too long. Right, Seb?”

Seb took a beat too long to answer. He was staring at Carlos strangely; his eyes wide, his mouth slightly agape. When Carlos raised his eyebrows, a Seb stammered out a reply: “R-right!”

Carlos turned back to Mr Mazzara. “Seb shouldn’t be punished. His transgressions weren’t his fault; they were mine.”

“It wasn’t really—” Seb tried to protest, but Carlos silenced him with a glance.

Mr Mazzara looked like he couldn’t decide if he was dreaming or not. His eyebrows were still furrowed, but it was out of confusion, not anger.  
“Of course,” he rumbled. “Whatever his royal highness wishes.”

 _Only if that were the case for everything,_ thought Carlos, with no small amount of bitterness.

Some of that must’ve seeped into his face, because when he turned to Seb, the witch’s face was a mask of concern. It was nice to think that he’d left enough of an impression that Seb would worry after him. It was nice to have kept Seb’s company, for however short it lasted. Carlos wanted to reach out and smooth out that line between Seb’s brows, but he stifled the urge as quickly as it rose. Ridiculous. Carlos shouldn’t expect to see him again. Being a prince made things too complicated for friendships, especially if it was with someone of lesser standing.

“I’ll take my leave now,” said Carlos. He nodded at Mr Mazzara, then at Seb, and made to turn away.

“Wait!”

A hand grabbed his.

A faint gasp sounded from high above them, where five faces were _still_ pressed against the window.

Carlos turned around slowly.

Seb’s face was half-panic half-determination, like he was aware he’d just made a very, very bad decision, but was planning on sticking to it anyway. His blond fringe fell over his eyes, struck through with gold from the glow of witch-lights. His mouth was set in a firm, stubborn line.

“Mr Mazzara,” he said, “I’d like to say goodbye to his highness.” When the teacher still didn’t make a move, Seb added with an unnecessary amount of emphasis: “In _private_.”

Mr Mazzara’s eyebrows shot up past his hairline. Carlos’s face felt like it was on fire.

“Alright, then,” Mr Mazzara acquiesced, starting to back away. Just before he slipped through the door, he gave Seb one last confused glance. “Just—don’t take too long.”

Seb nodded. Carlos also nodded, though Mr Mazzara probably wasn’t referring to him.

Then they were alone. Well, except for the five people still watching.

“There’s people up there,” said Carlos, trying to discreetly point upward. Seb, with absolutely no discretion, looked up, made direct eye contact with his classmates, and immediately started waving his hand (the one that wasn’t still occupied with holding Carlos’s hand. Holy shit they were still holding hands) in shooing motions. They seemed to protest, but Seb just shooed harder, and eventually, they drew away.

“Your highness,” said Seb, rounding on Carlos. His face was split in a wide grin, unfurling across his face like the spread of a flower, the twist of a vine toward sun, but there was a shadow on his underside. “I have a _great_ idea.”

Carlos’s stomach flipped for absolutely no reason. “And what does this have to do with me?”

Seb’s stare bore into Carlos with such intensity, all blue-coloured ardor, Carlos feared his knees would buckle. “Your highness, do you trust me?”

For a wild moment, Carlos was sure he’d say yes _._ Then common sense caught up.

“Of course not,” he replied flatly. “I’ve known you for less than a day.”

Seb laughed.

“That’s fair,” he said, easy as anything. “But hear me out. If you really, _really_ want to go to the castle town, all you have to do is…” He paused for gravity. “Sneak out.”

Carlos sighed. “You think I haven’t already tried?”

“But you didn’t have a witch on your side,” Seb pointed out, infuriatingly smug. “I know, like, _three_ spells to turn invisible.”

“Why do you know three spells to turn invisible?”

“Natalie taught me.”

“Why does Natalie—”

“Okay that’s not the point,” interrupted Seb. He finally let go of Carlos’s hand. “The point is: there’s no curfew on weekends. I can stay out as long as I want. We could meet up somewhere, turn invisible, go down to the castle town, have a blast, and come back with no one the wiser.”

Carlos’s traitorous heart gave a hopeful leap. For a moment, he could envision it: he and Seb, completely concealed by a spell, walking right past the guards at the gates, strolling unopposed to the castle town, drawing back the veil of invisibility, and then—

Carlos didn’t know. He’d only seen the town from afar. He wouldn’t even know what to do there; what did you normally do in towns? Go shopping? Eat brunch with friends? Either way, he wanted to find out.

But reality crashed back in.

“Actually,” Carlos began, feeling very sour. “ _I_ have a curfew.”

Seb blinked. “Huh?”

“It’s later than yours. Not by much, though,” Carlos said, looking at the sky, “should be in an hour.”

“Then we’ll just come back earlier.”

“It’ll be suspicious if I’m not sighted around the castle for hours.”

Seb chewed his lip in thought. “Well… after your curfew should be fine, right?”

Carlos laughed disbelievingly. “If you can manage to sneak past the guards in front of my bedroom, you’re welcome to try.”

Seb’s eyes had taken on a triumphant gleam. His grin grew wider, and likewise, the shadow of it stretched larger, growing more daring, more brazen.

“Actually,” he said, “we’ll leave through the window.”

* * *

**NOW:**

A knock on the window startled Carlos out of his thoughts.

He’d been skimming through the contents of the envelope, double-sided misery and fear warring in his chest. They were familiar emotions, ones he’d had as a child every time the King shouted at him, or whenever his tutors tutted at the gaps in his knowledge, or whenever the servants and nobles looked at him with the same half-patronising half-pitying looks in their eyes. It was him fearing if he’d become too much of a burden. Too big of a blight on the royal family. It was Carlos wondering how long it’d take until the other shoe dropped, and he’d finally be cast to the streets.

In a way, these fears had come true, but they were nothing as dramatic as he’d imagined. In one scenario, he pictured the King picking him up by his collar like a stray cat, and tossing him out the door where he belonged. No, this was more ceremonious than that. Now that Carlos was truly cast away, it was with official documents, with the nod from the advisors and court and council, with the King tugging at their strings like a puppeteer.

Carlos looked up sluggishly, thinking that a bird had flown into his window, or something.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Instead, it was Seb.

“Open the window,” he mouthed.

Carlos scrambled to follow. The window was situated directly above his desk, sending natural light streaming into the room, suitable enough to work and read with, but it also meant that Carlos had to awkwardly brace himself against the desk with one hand while working open the window latch with the other. When it was finally freed, he tugged it open.

Wind rushed in, sending a flurry of papers to the floor, but Carlos couldn’t care less.

Seb was _here._

Almost trampling the list of renowned cultural locations in Hellebore, Carlos climbed onto the desk to get closer. He held the windowframe for balance. 

“Seb!” he said, and Seb met his gaze, and even as the wind blew cool on his face, it was as if the air had gone thick and heavy. Carlos could feel his face smiling and smiling, and it was too much smiling, he probably looked like a fool, but it didn’t matter because Seb was here, Seb was here and maybe everything wasn’t hopeless after all. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to give you something,” said Seb. The breeze had made his hair stick up in all directions. Carlos ached to run his hands through it, to smooth it down, but his arms were occupied in trying not to pitch out the window. When Carlos looked down, he found that Seb was sitting on his broomstick, hovering more than two storeys off from the ground.

This, too, was not the first time it’d happened.

“Here, let me—” Seb rooted around in his pocket, and pulled out hand mirror. He pressed it in Carlos’s hands. His fingers were warm and dry, and Carlos held on, the mirror trapped between them.

Seb’s face softened in a helpless smile. “You have to actually take it, you know.”

“I know,” said Carlos without looking away from Seb’s eyes.

Seb flushed, but before Carlos could tease him further, the witch continued: “Natalie heard you’re leaving for Hellebore soon. She told me it’s a month-long trip, and you’ll only be back for your marriage, then you’d be off to Hellebore again. Is this true?”

“How does Natalie know these things?” muttered Carlos disbelievingly. “I just received the news, like, an hour ago.”

Seb nodded grimly. “She’s got eyes and ears all over the castle. It scares me. In any case,” he nodded toward the mirror, “it’s a magical communication device. It comes in pairs; I have the other. When you say a phrase, you can see and hear what’s reflected on the other mirror. We can talk with this.”

“Seb,” said Carlos, his voice going embarrassingly soppy. “Thank you. This is brilliant.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Natalie,” Seb corrected. “She says this was the newest prototype in her father’s line of—actually, I don’t even know. It’s convenient, right?”

“I’m promising Natalie my firstborn,” said Carlos with deliberate graveness.

Seb raised his eyebrows. “Whoa there, you’re not even married yet.”

They’re both joking. Carlos can tell by the amused gleam in Seb’s eye, by the way his mouth won’t stop twitching up, like he can’t not smile in Carlos’s presence, by the lightness in both their tones. Yet, as Carlos opens his mouth, he finds himself saying something terrifyingly sincere.

“I hope I’m never married.”

Seb’s face fell, misery drawing around him like a curtain.  
“I’m—I’m sorry,” said Carlos hurriedly. “I didn’t mean to bring it up.” He paused for a beat, squeezing Seb’s hand. “Are you okay?”

 _“You’re_ asking _me_ if I’m okay?” Seb asked incredulously. “You’re the one who has to get married!” He winced. “Oh Gods, that hurts to say. Anyway,” he cleared his throat, “you’re _not_ going to get married. Not if I can help it.”

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t try.”

“Seb…” Carlos said, trailing off. _This is hopeless,_ he wanted to say. _You’ll just be wasting your time. The King’s power is absolute._

“That’s what the mirrors are for,” Seb continued determinedly. “If we can communicate, it’ll be easier to plot the demise of this marriage.”

A laugh burst from Carlos, startlingly loud. “The _demise_ of my marriage?”

“I’m the wicked witch stealing the prince away from his betrothed. It’s just what we do,” Seb said, deceptively light. It could be taken for a joke, but Carlos knew Seb better than that. In those words lay an unspoken question: _I’m not giving up, so will you?  
_ It was unfair. It was unfair that Seb could come in here, wind-tousled and pink-cheeked, with earnest hope shining from those blue eyes, with one half of a magical mirror set, and ask Carlos to keep fighting. It was unfair, because Carlos had already made his decision the moment he saw Seb behind that window.

“I’ll look forward to that day,” Carlos agreed.

Seb’s face lit up. “Does that mean—?”

“I’m not giving up yet,” said Carlos, feeling wild and free and impossibly daring, like he was the protagonist of an epic novel. He grinned at Seb, and Seb grinned back, joyous.

A knock came from Carlos’s bedroom door.

“Your highness? May we come in?”

Carlos’s breath hitched. Anxiety surged in his chest, and he considered the scene if an outsider were to see: him, the prince, kneeling on his desk, hands interlocked with a witch

floating outside the window. It was too obviously romantic for plausible deniability.

“It’s the servants,” whispered Carlos. “They’re here to pack my bags.”

Another knock. “Your highness?”

“Wait a minute!” Carlos called. When he turned back to Seb, the witch was frowning, and Carlos couldn’t help but try and reassure him, “hey, it’s okay, we’ll see each other again.”

“Of course we will.” Seb pressed the mirror more insistently into Carlos’s hand, speaking quickly: “The phrase for the mirror is this: _silver window, grant me sight, what secrets shall I bring to light?_ Repeat that.”

“ _Silver window, grant me sight, what secrets shall I bring to light?”_ Carlos repeated dutifully.

“Don’t forget that.”

Carlos looked up, into Seb’s resolute gaze, and met it with one of his own. “I swear I won’t.”

All at once, Seb’s expression crumpled, and he surged forward, wrapping an arm around Carlos, who met him so desperately. He let go of the windowsill. He embraced Seb back with both arms, wobbling dangerously on his knees, now likely to pitch out the window, but he trusted Seb to keep him safe. If he could trust Seb with his heart, he could trust Seb with his life.

Carlos clung to Seb like a ship to its anchor, like a compass to north.

 _I miss you already_ , he yearned to whisper into what little distance remained between them, achingly aware that that distance would only grow. 

A knock came again, louder.

“Your highness?”

Carlos snapped, aggravated: “Just a moment!”

He pulled a little bit back from Seb. Everything in his body rebelled against the motion.

“I’ll see you soon,” he whispered, his voice shaky.

Seb nodded. “Every day, okay? Whenever you’re free, just activate the mirror. We’ll work this out.”

Carlo buried his face into Seb’s neck. He hoped Seb wouldn’t notice the growing dampness against his skin.

“I love you,” Carlos whispered, splintered with emotion.

Seb tucked an arm back around him, automatic.

“I love you too,” he said softly.

They remained there for a beat, until the servant started knocking again, the raps against the doorframe sounding more annoyed. “Your highness!”

Carlos wrenched himself away from Seb. There was a brief moment of heartrending fear when he tipped near the mouth of the window, unbalanced, but Seb guided Carlos’s hand to grip on the windowframe, and once he was stable, they both breathed a sigh of relief.

“You need to go,” said Seb.

Carlos wiped his eyes, taking a deep composing breath. “I know. I do. I need to—do a lot of things.” He looked up. “Wait for me?”

“Of course,” breathed Seb, and this time, when he leaned forward, it wasn’t for an embrace. Carlos met him halfway. Their kiss was barely more than a smudge, a warm press of lips, and Carlos could feel Seb shivering, barely-banked desperation running through his frame.

 _Four weeks,_ Carlos told himself. _Just four weeks._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A HUGE THANK YOU TO MY BETA READER, ALICE! love u alice 
> 
> kudos and comments make my day, don't forget to leave one!

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first multi-chaptered fic! Please show your support in the comments because otherwise I might have enough willpower to finish it!! jk jk i'm not that desperate for validation (or am I...?)


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